


Loud, Loutish Lover

by shocked_into_shame



Category: The Smiths
Genre: 1960s, Anal Sex, Dogs, Drug Use, F/M, Homelessness, Johnny Andy and Mike are a gang, Johnny is really tuff, M/M, Marrissey, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rocker AU, Smoking, Swearing, Who knows why I'm writing this, Will become porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4016659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shocked_into_shame/pseuds/shocked_into_shame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer of 1964 was the greatest of Steven Morrissey's life.</p><p>-Marrissey 1960s Rocker AU-</p><p>[Abandoned]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 10 Shillings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! After The Most Inept ended, I promised that I'd try to write another multi-chaptered fic. So here is one that's been eating at me for some time... a 1960s AU!!! [my love for the Outsiders may or may not have influenced this one]  
> I hope you guys enjoy it ^_^ i'm excited to embark on another multi-chapter journey!

The summer of 1964 was the greatest of Steven Morrissey's life. 

 

Of course, from an outside perspective, that may seem strange. From the outside, it seemed like a summer like any other, filled with the humdrum actions of life and a constant struggle for balance between work and play that would seem more appropriate for a boy of 15 than a man of 22. To Morrissey, though, it was a summer of life, and love, and a glimpse of a happiness that would not be easily matched.

 

It began, as things often do, at work. The old boiler rattled, and he could hear the persistent tap of rain on the ancient roof as he sat behind the counter, engrossed in a Jane Austen novel. The gas station was barren, as usual, considering the fact that it was an ungodly hour. Why his boss thought people would need to fill their cars at 11 PM, he'd never understand. 

 

Despite the fact that it was early July, the chill of nighttime had settled in, and Steven mightily regretted not bringing his white wool cardigan to work that night. To hell with the fact that it was technically against his dress-code; it wasn't like anyone would show up to see him violating the rules anyway. If he ever got business during his shift, it was either from people who were lost or people who were drunk. 

 

He hated his job, absolutely abhorred working at the gas station. On second thought, it was more like he hated working in general. That was precisely why he had insisted on going to university for creative writing. He did not want to work, but if he had to get an income, he'd at least like to earn it by doing something he loved. Of course, his mother was reluctant to pay for this education, and he had to admit that she had a good reason for being unsure. But he was adamant that he'd go to university and then become an author. Or, if that wouldn't work, he could at least follow in his mother's footsteps and work at a library or a bookstore. That is exactly how he ended up here, sitting behind this rickety old counter and reading  _ Pride and Prejudice _ to pass the time away. His attendance at school was conditional on him paying for it in part, so he had no choice but to get a summer job. 

 

He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses further up on his face and turned the page, thumbing the corner as his eyes skimmed the words in front of him. He had to squint slightly in the dim light of the store, and he might have been developing a headache from the strain, but he chose to push that possibility away in favor of savoring his book and counting down the minutes until he could lock up and go home. 

 

_ 120, 119, 118, 117... _

 

And then the bell was ringing to signal that someone had entered the shop. Steven glanced at the clock and furrowed a thick eyebrow, wondering what kind of person was there at this time. A tall man walked, no, more like  _ strolled  _ in. Cigarette in his mouth, he leaned against the counter with confidence. This man was everything Steven wasn't and more; his green eyes shined brightly, his black hair was styled into a greasy pompadour, and he wore a thick beat-up leather jacket that Steven knew only rockers wore. Of course, it was some motorcycle gang member; that'd explain the stroll, and the strong smell of cigarette smoke that clung to him like a second skin.

 

“Hey, can you give me two packs of B & H?” he asked, voice low but smooth in a way that Steven hadn't heard before. 

 

He marked his page in the book and stood up, fetching the cigarettes the guy had asked for. “That'll be 10 shillings.” 

 

“No, I don't think it will be.” Steven's brow creased in confusion as he heard the declaration. What the heck was up with this guy? Suddenly, he was being grabbed by the collar of his blue work shirt and words were practically spit into his face. “You're gonna give me the cigarettes, and I ain't paying for them.”

 

Steven almost had to laugh at the sheer idiocy of the situation. He'd dealt with theft before, but never had anyone demanded so little. Risking being caught by the police for a meager 10 shillings worth of cigarettes was an absolute lunatic move. Steven almost wished that the guy had been asking for more, or at least had brought a weapon with him or something. It'd make dialing for the police a much easier decision. Faced with a rocker with ears a bit too large for his face who only wanted to steal two packages of cigarettes was more comical than anything else, and Steven wasn't inclined to report this guy to the cops. 

 

Luckily, though, he didn't have to, as the bell rang again and a second rocker strutted into the store. He was shorter,  _ much _ shorter, but the minute he entered, the first rocker cowered like a scared dog and let go of Steven's collar. This new man was also dressed in leather and had black hair, but his eyes were golden brown and there was a peroxide blonde streak of hair running up the middle of his slicked pompadour. Something about this short, extremely thin man was alluring, and Steven felt arousal settle in his gut as he gazed at him behind his glasses.

 

“Mike, what the hell did I tell you about stealing fucking petty shit,” the man asked, hitting the first rocker, who was apparently called Mike, over the head. This man's voice was far higher in pitch, and almost-gentle sounding, but there was a slight glint in his eyes and something in his posture that sent out blaring warning signs: he was clearly trouble. “You steal fucking two packs of fags and you end up in jail, and then Andy and I will have to smuggle your ass out of there, all because you couldn't keep your sticky fingers in your pockets.” 

 

“Shit, I know, Johnny, but you can't blame me for wanting smokes.” 

 

“Don't... Don't worry. I won't call the police,” Steven spoke up, afraid to meet Johnny's eyes for fear that they might burn right into his soul. 

 

“Damn, thanks,” Johnny said with a slight grin, hopping up on the counter like he owned the place. “I'm Johnny Marr. This idiot is my friend, Mike Joyce, but I think you met him already. Mikey, say sorry to the nice man.”

 

Steven expected Mike to glare, or protest, or  _ something _ , but he looked at him and apologized in earnest. 

 

“It's no problem. I'm Steven.” 

 

Johnny let out a bark of laughter and stole Mike's cigarette straight from between his teeth, taking a slow drag as he chuckled to himself. “With glasses like those, it's no wonder you've got a name like Steven.” Steven cocked his head, staring at Johnny with complete confusion. “You gotta ditch the name. Ever thought about going by your last? Say, what's your last name?”

 

“Morrissey.”

 

“Hm,” Johnny took another drag of Mike's cigarette. “That's kind of cool. Mike, what do you think? We could call him Morrissey... Or Moz, for short.” 

 

Steven was completely confused by Johnny's apparent desire to change his name. Clearly, the rocker thought they were friends now, or he wouldn't be planning what he'd call Steven from now on. Something about being friends with Johnny, who was clearly dangerous and very obviously cooler than Steven could ever dream of being, sent a thrill of excitement running up the blue eyed man's spine. 

 

“Hey, Moz, you ever been riding?”

 

Stev- no,  _ Morrissey _ shook his head and blushed a little, embarrassed that he'd never been on a motorcycle before. 

 

Johnny smiled like he was a shark circling his prey. It should have been terrifying, but, once again, Morrissey found himself aroused at the sight.“How about you come with us and our mate tomorrow? I'll pick you up here at noon, and we can go on a little joyride. In thanks for you helping out my friend here,” 

 

Despite his better logic, he found himself agreeing to the proposition in earnest. 

 


	2. Pomade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Against all odds, I really like this chapter. I hope you do, too.

 

The smell of gasoline was an onslaught to Morrissey's senses, and all he could hear was the steady strum of the motorcycle engine as Johnny pulled up beside him the next day. He took in the sight of Johnny straddling his red bike, helmet-less, of course, and felt a strange thrill in the pit of his stomach. Once again, Johnny was clad in the beat up leather jacket from last night, and his jeans were cuffed high to reveal his biker boots. He had a cigarette between his teeth, but that didn't stop him from slyly grinning at Morrissey as he pulled up. Behind him was the unmistakable figure of Mike, on his own bike and dressed in a similar fashion. The last of the trio was a blonde that Morrissey had never met, whose similarities in dress seemed to stop at the quiffed haircut and motorbike. The blonde was dressed like he was going somewhere fancy, in a slim-trousered suit with thick black lapels. The three of them together was an image like no other, and Morrissey felt instantly sub-par in his simple chinos and sweater, glasses on his nose and hair styled in a messy mop-top. He shuffled on his feet, pulling at his sleeves and wondering just what he had gotten himself into.

 

 Johnny turned the key on his motorcycle and the loud thrumming came to a halt, and after Mike and their blonde friend followed suit, Morrissey could finally hear himself think again.

 

“Hey there, friend,” Johnny greeted with a smile, taking his cigarette out of his mouth for a brief moment. “This is our buddy Andy Rourke.” He gestured toward the well-dressed blonde, who gave Morrissey a little wave paired with a charming grin. Morrissey instantly found himself at ease with this green eyed, chipmunk-cheeked man, even if his eyes were slightly glassy and something about his mannerisms was not quite right.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Morrissey replied shyly, pushing his hair out of his face.

 

“You getting on, or what?”

 

“On your bike?” Morrissey's eyes widened and his stomach clenched at the thought of sitting on the back of Johnny's motorcycle, arms wrapped around him tightly, body pressed against the firm column of Johnny's back.

 

“Yeah, hop on, scaredy-cat,” Johnny quipped, placing his cigarette back in his mouth and taking a slow drag. Morrissey did as he was told, tentatively straddling the seat behind Johnny. “Now you're gonna wanna hang onto me. When I lean, you lean. Got it?”

 

“Yeah, Johnny, I got it.”

 

“Alright, let's get moving then.”

 

With one movement of Johnny's hand, the bike came alive below them, and Morrissey gasped at the sudden roaring and steady vibration below him. Despite the sound of the bike, Moz could hear the loud guffaw Johnny let out at his apparent fear. “When we get where we're going,” Johnny shouted over the bike, turning slightly, “we're giving you a pomp.”

 

Morrissey couldn't help the wide smile that spread on his cheeks at the idea. He instantly warmed at the prospect of having a haircut like Johnny's, one that would make him look handsome and tough. Or as close to handsome and tough as he could possibly get.

 

Johnny pushed the bike with his feet, walking it toward the exit of the gas station parking lot before shooting off into the street suddenly. Moz found himself tightening his grip on Johnny without meaning too, stricken by a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. As they increased in speed, heading out toward some unknown destination, Morrissey became increasingly excited, although his tight grip on Johnny persisted due to his still very prominent fear.

 

All too soon, the ride came to an end, but the place they stopped in confused Morrissey. Johnny had driven them right under an old iron bridge and beside some train tracks that he wasn't familiar with, where there were mattresses and blankets set up, a place that seemed to be a hermit's lair. But it was marked by an almost-impossible stylishness, as there were clothes in neat little piles, mirrors and assorted bottles of hair products and colognes scattered, and, standing proudly on a makeshift stand was a beat-up guitar.

 

“Home sweet home,” Johnny murmured, tone affectionate, as he stopped the bike and got off, Morrissey following.

 

“You live here? Under the bridge?” he questioned as he watched Andy sit down on one of the ratty mattresses and Mike joined him.

 

“Yeah, what's it to ya? By the way, next time we ride try not to cling so tight. What were you trying to do, break my fucking ribs?”

 

Morrissey looked down in embarrassment, and he was mortified to find that his cheeks were heating up. No doubt, they were stained pink. Once again, he was reminded that he was entirely out of his league among Johnny Marr and his tiny gang of riders.

 

“Don't worry about it, Moz. Stop yer blushing and let me do something with yer hair. Mikey, would you get me a blade and that pomade you stole last week?”

 

Morrissey let himself be sat down on the ground as Mike brought Johnny what he asked for. He shut his eyes tightly as Johnny began to cut away his thick locks, cringing and wondering why he was trusting Johnny to cut his hair with a makeshift razor. _Because he's the most handsome, stylish man you've ever met,_ a tiny voice echoed in Morrissey's mind. Against all odds, he felt comfortable with Johnny, even though he knew the man was more than a little rough around the edges, and probably wouldn't hesitate knocking him around if he knew just how attracted Morrissey was to him.

 

Finally, the trimming ceased, and Johnny opened up a blue tin to reveal foul-smelling, thick pomade that he warmed in his hands and began to style Morrissey's hair with. Moz took careful note of what he did, so he could attempt to emulate the steps on his own.

 

Johnny finished and pulled away, humming lowly and appraising his handiwork. A grin spread on his face. “Mike, get me a mirror.”

 

A mirror was placed in front of Moz and he couldn't help the little gasp that escapes from his lips. His hair was styled in an impeccably messy pomp, a little less greasy than Johnny's but equally as attractive. It made his jaw look stronger, somehow, and he found himself smiling like the cat that got the cream.

 

“Now you don't look like such a nerd,” Johnny teased with a warm smile, standing up and dusting gravel off his jeans. Without sparing a second glance at Morrissey, he walked to the guitar, grabbing it and beginning to play an nknown melody. In awe, Morrissey watched as the three of them came to life, Mike tapping on his legs in rhythm and Andy humming out what seemed to be a bass part as he smoked a pipe full of god-knows-what. Their makeshift band, comprised of only one real instrument and deprived of vocals, was, for some reason, impressive, and Morrissey began to bob his head in time, a movement that Johnny instantly noticed. He looked incredibly pleased that Moz was enjoying the music, as though his opinion actually mattered. And, not for the first time, Morrissey felt a thrum of affection and excitement about Johnny and his friends, and the 12 or so hours that he had known them seemed like much more, seemed like eternities.

 

The music was interrupted by barking, as a large Alsatian ran into the space and jumped on Johnny.

 

“Dog!” Andy let out excitedly, reaching over to pet the handsome pup with an affectionate grin on his face. Johnny set down his guitar gently, as though it were made of glass, before bending down to a crouch and giving attention to the dog.

 

“Hello, Dog, how're you today?” Johnny asked, speaking to the Alsatian as though he fully expected a response.

 

“What's his name?” Morrissey asked, standing up and walking over to the cluster that had formed around the dog.

 

Mike began to laugh and replied, nonchalantly, “Dog. He's a stray, but he comes round a lot, so we just took to calling him 'Dog'.”

 

Something about that, the fact that this trio of tough men informally adopted a stray and only referred to him as 'Dog' made Morrissey laugh in earnest, moving to pet Dog, too.

 

“Do you like him?” Johnny asked expectantly, an excited glimmer in his eyes.

 

“Of course,” Morrissey responded, meeting Johnny's gaze. “I love animals. That's why I don't eat them.”

 

“Wait, you don't eat meat either? Shit, me and Mikey here are a couple of vegetarians. Andy hasn't yet been convinced,” Johnny replied, grinning widely. Morrissey felt the breath escape him. How could this hood, this motorcycle-riding, rough-talking man be so tender and so _like_ him underneath it all? How could he and this man, who embodied everything he wasn't, have so much in common? It seemed impossible, but it was undeniable. Johnny and Morrissey had a _world_ in common.

 

Conversation continued easily, and Moz discovered that the three of them did, in fact, live underneath that bridge permanently, more out of necessity than choice. None of them had jobs, and they had all been kicked out of their parents' homes. Andy was set out because of his drug use. Mike was sent away when he stole one too many packs of cigarettes. And when Johnny was sent to jail for 3 months for hitting his boss, he, too, was asked to leave his childhood home and subsequently lost the only steady job he'd had in his life. Somehow, the three of them had found each other, and Johnny was seized by a fierce desire to protect Mike and Andy. Together, jobless and homeless, they got along. It sure as hell wasn't easy, it seemed, but all three were adamant that they wouldn't change their position for the world.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Morrissey sat with Johnny, Mike, and Andy in a small diner in town, each sipping a milkshake, Morrissey's treat. He had been unofficially adopted into their small gang, despite not being nearly as tough as they were. After all, he was still a “nerd”, as Johnny called him, what with his thick glasses, sweaters, and insistence on reading as much as he could. Despite all that, though, Johnny took him under his wing as he had done with Andy and Mike, and Moz was powerless to stop the friendship that developed among the three of them. The comradeship was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and he treasured it more than he could say.

 

However, along with that comradeship came an increased sense of affection, _romantic_ affection, towards Johnny. Morrissey couldn't help but feel like his heart was going to beat out of his chest every time he gazed upon Johnny's golden brown eyes and stylishly-dressed petite figure. More than physicality, though, Johnny _understood_ Moz, understood him on a level that no one else had ever before. Morrissey had always been shy, unable to truly bond with most people he encountered. But associating with Johnny was easy and it felt right to the now-quiffed man.

 

The threat of being caught in his affection, however, kept Morrissey up at night. Not only was that kind of affection illegal, but it was also something that Johnny openly frowned upon on more than one occasion. Johnny had made it very clear, once, how he felt about people like Morrissey. Against his better judgment, though, the blue eyed man just couldn't help the way he felt. And, sometimes, he couldn't help but think that the way Johnny was with him, the way Johnny looked at him, was more than platonic. Perhaps that was wishful thinking.

 

Morrissey was startled out of his thoughts when a small, beautiful brown-haired girl approached the table and Johnny got up, nearly knocking over his milkshake in excitement. “Morrissey, this is my girlfriend, Angie. I think you too are gonna get along just great,” Johnny said, sitting down and pulling Angie into his lap fondly.

 

Morrissey couldn't deny that Johnny was right, that he and Angie did get along wonderfully. She was a beautiful girl, inside and out, dressed in a deep blue with a hairband to match. She was a vegetarian, too, and her wit was sharp and her smile warm. She seemed to ground Johnny, a perfect match to his rough demeanor. They talked comfortably, like they had been together for 25 years rather than the two that they were.

 

Morrissey couldn't help it, but when he got home he screamed into his pillow in anger and frustration. Johnny was undoubtedly in love with Angie, and, based on what he felt seeing them together, Morrissey almost thought that he was in love with Johnny. And Johnny would murder him if he knew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed! It makes me want to write more when I know people care (:


	3. 12'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i liked last chapter better but right now the action needs to start so that's always difficult  
> this chapter was hard to get through  
> please enjoy

 

Morrissey felt his stomach somewhere in his throat. He had woken up far too early that morning, too excited to stay in bed. Hands shaky and heart racing, he went through his daily routine, brushing his teeth despite the giant grin plastered on his face and doing his hair meticulously. He chose his clothing carefully, opting for a deep blue polo that made his eyes look bluer, somehow, and gray shorts.

 

Johnny was coming to his house. Johnny was going to be in this very room in less than an hour.

 

That prospect, was, of course, incredibly exciting for the blue eyed man. Affection for the Johnny continued to grow in their interaction, but the pair of them had yet to be alone together, let alone so close to a bed. He couldn't stop the rather inappropriate thoughts that ran through his head. Quickly he stifled them, however, and sat down on his bed to wait for Johnny's arrival.

 

Distraction could not be found, so he decided to simply stare at the wall and wait. And wait. And _wait._

 

And then he was shocked out of his daze by loud knocks at his front door. He practically tripped over his own feet in his mad dash to get to his door, and if his cheeks were more than a little flushed by the time he got there then so be it.

 

Johnny was leaning against the door-frame, cigarette between his teeth. Because of the heat, he wasn't wearing his trademark jacket. Instead, he was wearing perfectly cuffed jeans and a skin tight white t-shirt, so tight and so thin that Morrissey could see his pink nipples underneath. His hair was greased and styled into a perfect pompadour, despite a few strands that were falling down into his face. He took a gulp of air and plastered on a smile, hoping that Johnny didn't see his appreciatory glance over his body.

 

But Johnny seemed to be doing an appraisal of his own, staring at Moz's eyes with a strange expression on his face. The more naïve side of Morrissey wanted to believe that Johnny was noticing the blue of his eyes, but the realistic side quickly destroyed that notion. It was unmistakeable, though, that Johnny was wearing an expression that Morrissey could not read, and he was certainly considering something deeply.

 

Morrissey broke the silence quickly, unable to stand the staring match that was occurring. “Well, you can come in. Would you like anything to drink?”

 

With that, Johnny was his normal self again, grinning impishly and shaking his head. He put out his cigarette on the ground before stepping into his house. “Hot date later?”

 

Morrissey furrowed his brows and replied, “No, why do you ask?”

 

“No reason.”

 

The pair sat in silence for the longest minute of Morrissey's life before he decided to just bring Johnny to his room. Once there, he watched in quiet joy as Johnny explored the space, making himself at home. The minute his eyes landed on the very large collection of records that Morrissey had amassed, a pleased smile spread on his face. Morrissey felt dread in his stomach; most of what he had was girl groups, not the rough rock n' roll that Johnny was a fan of. He was instantly afraid that Johnny would scrutinize his taste in music.

 

That fear did, to an extent, prove legitimate, as Johnny cocked an eyebrow, pulling out a single by the Cookies' and eying it in a sort of wary suspicion. “What the hell is this bubblegum shit?” he asked, and although it seemed as though he was mostly teasing, Morrissey still found himself mortified that Johnny wasn't content with his choice in song. But, deep down, he knew that the music he listened to was quality, and that he just had to play it for Johnny and change his mind.

 

“It's a single by the Cookies. The a-side is called 'Will Power' but I much prefer the b-side. Would you like to listen?”

 

Johnny laughed (which puzzled Morrissey beyond belief) before shrugging and declaring, “What the hell? Lemme see what all the fuckin' fuss is about.”

 

Without any further fanfare, Johnny sat himself on the floor cross-legged and Morrissey played the record. He sat down beside his friend, leaning back against his bed and allowing the Cookies' “I Want a Boy for My Birthday” to sweep over him, closing his eyes and enjoying the experience. Without meaning to, he began to sing along quietly, smiling and letting himself imagine actually getting the boy sitting beside him.

 

Too soon, however, his bliss was cut short as Johnny cleared his throat and stunned him out of his musical stupor. He opened his eyes, blushing when he noticed that Johnny was scrutinizing him, staring directly into his eyes with a puzzled expression.

 

“You can... You can sing?”

 

“Yeah,” Morrissey replied, unable to voice anything above a whisper. His heart leaped in his throat as Johnny leaned closer to him, and perhaps he was imagining it, but it seemed that Johnny was glancing at his lips. “Johnny, what are you doing?” he asked, immediately chastising himself for doing so, because Johnny pulled away like he'd been burned.

 

“Don't get any ideas. You know I ain't into that shit, right?”

 

And Morrissey had to assume that Johnny meant he wasn't into kissing other men, Moz in particular. So, untruthfully, he nodded his head and said, as well as he could, “I know. Me either.”

 

Johnny didn't looked convinced. But he dropped the subject and leaned back, letting the record play out until the song's end. When it was over, he turned to Morrissey and barked out, gruffly, “Well, the song was good.”

 

“Thanks.” Morrissey could feel himself sinking into the floorboards beneath him. For the first time, he and Johnny didn't seem to know what to say, and he feared the worst. He was terrified, absolutely _terrified_ that Johnny knew how he felt. God, if Johnny _knew_.. Their friendship was as good as over.

 

“Listen, I, uh... I gotta go. I made plans with Angie tonight so I guess I'll... I'll see you around.” And, with that, Johnny got up quickly and sauntered out of Morrissey's house, without a second look behind him.

 

Morrissey shoved a pillow over his face and groaned.

* * *

 

 

The next day, Morrissey woke up and gave himself a pep talk in the mirror. He was going to walk to the bridge, apologize to Johnny for whatever the hell happened yesterday, and assure him that he wasn't interested in him like that so there was nothing to be afraid of. It sounded like a good plan in his head, at least, so he was fully prepared to enact it.

 

However, when he arrived at Johnny's home under the bridge, he was surprised to see that only Andy and Mike were there, sitting together on one of the mattresses and reading a newspaper. Andy was humming a song, and Mike stopped every so often to tap a beat on Andy's head, which made Andy break into a fit of laughter.

 

Morrissey felt like he was intruding on a very private moment. Very quickly, he resolved to step away quietly and find Johnny on his own, so as not to stop whatever was happening between his friends. But one misstep made a noise, and Andy looked up and noticed him. A good-natured grin spread on the blonde's face, and he waved him over.

 

“Where's Johnny?” Morrissey asked, looking down at Mike and Andy. Their faces fell, and Andy swore under his breath.

 

Mike sighed. “In jail. Again.”

 

“What?” Morrissey felt like he was going to pass out from shock. He forced himself to sit down and think straight. “Why is he in jail?”

 

“I don't know. I didn't get the whole story. But all I know is that someone looked at him the wrong way or something and he beat the guy up pretty badly. They threw him in jail and we don't know when he's getting out. You can go visit him, if you want.”

 

And if Morrissey sprinted to where Johnny was being held, well, it was just because he was tired of waiting around.

 

Luckily enough, Johnny was only being held in a small cell in the local police station. He was still wearing the cuffed jeans and white t-shirt from the day before, but his hair was now limp as it hadn't been restyled since the night before. Morrissey sat outside his cell, shaking his head disapprovingly.

 

“Johnny, why are you here?”

 

“Don't give me that fucking high-road bullshit,” Johnny muttered, rolling his eyes. “Not everyone is a goody-two-shoes.” Morrissey must have visibly recoiled, as Johnny quickly changed his tone of voice and sighed, rubbing his face in his hands. “I'm sorry. I just don't want to be here.”

 

“What happened?” Morrissey tried his hardest to avoid being judgmental.

 

“I was at the diner with Angie last night. And the waiter... Well, shit, it seemed like he was coming onto me. I fucking _know_ he was coming onto me. And I just snapped. Punched the shit out of him. And then someone called the police and now I'm here. Either I pay the bail or I'm here for God-knows how long.”

 

“Well, can't you just pay the bail? You must have some money in savings...How bad can it be?”

 

“Moz, they want 25 pounds.”

 

Well, _shit._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you were wondering, the value of 25 pounds in 1964 is about 450 pounds, 690 USD today. Yikes. especially since johnny doesn't have a job. and he lives under a bridge.


	4. Riah Zhoosher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this chapter is pretty dramatic oh well  
> WARNING: there is the use of a slur in this chapter. it isn't so bad, but it isn't good either. and there's a bit of homophobia.  
> sorry. it had to be done

 

Morrissey tossed and turned all night long. After seeing Johnny in a jail cell, he couldn't help the feeling of unrest that continued to course through him. It was a reminder, a reminder of just how _different_ the pair of them were. It was a reminder that, deep down, Johnny was dangerous, and a thug, and someone that Morrissey should not be involved with at all...

 

But knowing that didn't stop the feeling of _worry_ , worry about how Johnny would fare in prison, fear that he wouldn't get to see him again before the summer is over. At about 5AM, Morrissey sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and blindly reaching for his glasses. After they were on, he stepped out of bed and switched on the light.

 

He sighed deeply before getting on the floor and stretching his arm out underneath his bed, desperately trying to reach for a small box he had hidden under it. After a bit of groggy searching, he got up off the floor, box in hand, and sat on his bed.

 

In the box was money that he had been saving forever. It was about 40 pounds in total, some of it from working at the gas station, and some of it going back to confirmation and first communion, perhaps even baptism, gifts. The long and short of it was that this money was absolutely _necessary_ if Morrissey wished to buy books for university, and it would be idiotic to use it for any other use.

 

He nervously ran a hand through his hair before counting out 25 pounds and putting the money aside. Shakily, he got dressed, practically falling over in his haste, and he quickly styled his hair into a messy quiff before grabbing the money and running out the door.

 

First things first, he would have to ask Mike and Andy if this was a good idea. The pair of them knew Johnny better than anyone in world, other than Angie, perhaps, and they would know how he might react to a grand gesture like this. Would he be flattered, or would be overwhelmed? Thinking about it made Morrissey a little dizzy.

 

So, at 5:30 AM, he walked alone to the bridge, hoping that Andy and Mike weren't asleep yet so he wouldn't have to feel sorry for waking them up.

 

And, when he got there and heard _whimpers_ , loud and clear, it was obvious that neither of them were sleeping.

 

Luckily enough, both of them were fully clothed, but it didn't seem like they would remain that way for much longer. Andy was on his back underneath Mike, legs wrapped around his waist as they shared open mouthed kisses, heated and passionate. It was truly a sight to see, and Morrissey pushed away a slight tightening in his gut in response.

 

Once again, he knew that he was _intruding_ on Andy and Mike, but now he knew for certain that he was walking in on something romantic. He couldn't say he was surprised, and he was certainly happy for the pair of them, but a flare of something like jealousy rose in him in response.

 

He found himself trying to sneak away much like just a few hours before, but again, that was to no avail, as Mike jumped away from Andy like he had been shocked and stared, wide eyed, at Morrissey.

 

“Um... I- uh...” Mike blabbered, green eyes still wide in panic, a dark blush beginning to develop on his face.

 

“Please don't tell Johnny!” Andy blurted out, sitting up as quickly as he could and not-so-subtly adjusting his trousers. “He'd kill us if he knew. Please don't tell him.”

 

Morrissey grimaced at the comment. Andy was right, Johnny _would_ be angry at the pair of them if he had been the one to discover them in this position. Moz couldn't even begin to imagine what he'd do in response. And that made an intense feeling of pity wash over him, pity for this couple in front of him who were obviously passionately in love, but who couldn't say anything in fear of upsetting the one person who was always there for them.

 

“I... Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. And it doesn't upset me, just so you know. I think you make a perfect couple.”

 

Relief was plain on Mike's face, and Andy smiled in pure joy. Morrissey couldn't help but smile back before awkwardly adding, “Sorry I intruded... Um, I just wanted to tell you that I have the money to bail Johnny out. I wanted to know if you guys think it's a good idea? And then I'll get out of your hair.”

 

Mike grinned a little and looked over at Andy before reaching over and lightly grabbing the blonde's hand. “Bailing out Johnny? Shit, that'd be amazing. And, um.. thank you.”

 

Morrissey awkwardly said goodbye and left, not wanting to keep them from each other for any longer than he absolutely had to.

* * *

 

 

 

“Shit, I can't believe you did that for me, Moz. Angie, isn't he just the best friend anyone could ever ask for? Shit, you're so good to me, bud,” Johnny said excitedly, cancer stick between his teeth and arm wrapped around around Angie's shoulder tightly. The three of them were sitting in the diner together, and Johnny was positively bursting with joy about what Morrissey had done for him. Moz felt a leap of joy and something else in his stomach at the sight, Johnny in his tight white shirt and leather jacket, smoking and calling _him_ the best friend anyone could ever ask for.

 

Angie did not seem to share his apparent excitement, however. Obviously, she seemed relieved that Johnny was no longer incarcerated, and seemed grateful enough for Morrissey, but she also eyed the man with slight suspicion. If Morrissey smiled at Johnny, she seemed to get increasingly more fidgety, and every time Morrissey stole a look at Johnny, she would steal Johnny's attention with a kiss or a loving remark.

 

Worst of all, when she and Johnny left, she turned back and just gave Moz this _look_. This look that said, “I know your secret.”

 

Morrissey didn't think he was that obvious in his affection, but maybe Angie's womanly intuition made her realize his feelings. Or maybe, he was just going crazy.

 

But craziness couldn't account for the fact that, after that, Morrissey almost never saw Johnny if Angie wasn't there, too. He enjoyed Angie's company; she was funny and sweet and he admired the fact that she convinced Johnny and Mike to become vegetarians. She knew music well, and she was in full support of everything Johnny did. He should have liked her unconditionally, but he couldn't help but resent her slightly. He was all too aware of what she was up to, wedging herself between Morrissey and Johnny, and he didn't like it at all.

 

And, sometimes, Johnny didn't show up at all. He didn't come back home to the bridge, obviously staying with Angie in her parents' home. And it was on one of those nights that he finally decided to admit to Andy and Mike that he wanted to be with Johnny.

 

He was very quickly told _not_ to.

 

“Moz, Johnny isn't going to go for that. He loves you 'n all, but he wouldn't be happy if he knew. And he sure as hell wouldn't return the feelings,” Mike cautioned harshly.

 

Andy was a bit more gentle in dealing with the matter. “I just don't think it's a good idea,” he said, smoking a pipe. “We just don't wanna see you get hurt.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a rare occasion; Johnny was there, under the bridge, and Angie _wasn't_. And, on top of that, Morrissey didn't have to work. It was like a miracle. Morrissey quickly vowed to take full advantage of the situation. He was sat with Andy and Johnny, and the three of them were waiting on Mike, who had promised to come back with some liquor.

 

He may have accidentally [ _purposefully_ ] forgotten his jacket at home, wearing nothing but a thin polo and khaki pants. And, yes, he was cold, but if he, perhaps, _accentuated_ his shivering then so be it.

 

“Hey, you alright? You look fucking freezing,” Johnny said gruffly, smoking a cig and lounging near Morrissey.

 

Moz bit out a laugh. “Well, that's because I am.”

 

Johnny rolled his eyes and smirked, shrugging off his leather jacket and handing it to Moz. “The sleeves might be a little short, but it'll keep ya warm.”

 

Morrissey had to admit that, yes, the sleeves were a bit short, but everything else fit snugly, and the smell of cigarettes and Johnny's cologne absolutely clung to the surprisingly-soft leather. Morrissey felt warm and comfortable the minute he put the coat on, and smiled at Johnny in gratitude. “Thanks,” he said shyly, and Johnny's smiling in return was dazzling.

 

Andy cocked an eyebrow at Morrissey and gave him a subtle wink, which made the blue eyed man blush and look away in embarrassment. Luckily, the sound of a motorcycle engine distracted all three of them as Mike rode in. He got off his bike and threw beers at the three of them before sitting down beside Andy and opening his own.

 

1 beer became 4 beers, and Morrissey was slightly tipsy. Johnny was nursing his 3rd beer but he seemed to be faring better than Morrissey was, and wasn't really buzzed at all. Mike had only had the one, opting for smoking a pipe of God-knows-what with Andy, who had promptly fallen fast asleep. If Morrissey were less tipsy, he would have noticed the way Mike looked at the blonde's sleeping form with affection.

 

Mike began to tap on the ground, a beat that, to a sober ear, would sound slightly off, but to Morrissey's tipsy ears it sounded absolutely wonderful. Morrissey took one look at Johnny, with his greasy black pompadour, and felt all kinds of affection.

 

“Hey, Johnny,” Morrissey slurred, a big grin on his face and a flush in his cheeks. “I never thanked ya for the haircut... You're a regular ol' riah zhoosher.”

 

Mike's eyes widened in shock. Johnny offered a sideways glance at Morrissey before setting his beer down, expression blank, eyes cold and calculated.

 

“What'd you just fucking call me?”

 

Morrissey cursed himself for being such an idiot. In his spare time, the summer before last, he had explored and learned of a language called polari, and, out of some strange coping mechanism for realizing he was, in fact, attracted to men, he learned how to speak it even though he had never had the chance to use it in conversation. But he occasionally found the words seeping into his thoughts, gay slang that was easy and that he liked knowing how to speak, on the off chance that, maybe, someone would understand him. And, apparently, _Johnny_ understood him.

 

“You think I don't know what kind of person calls a hairdresser a fucking _riah zhoosher_? You think I'm an idiot or something?”

 

“No, Johnny, I don't-”

 

“So, all this fucking time, you were a queer? When you had me in your fucking bedroom and played me some girl group and swore to me you weren't into that, you fucking lied?”

 

“Johnny, I can't help who I'm attracted to. Please just-”

 

Johnny's fist flew out and hit Morrissey's jaw with a sickening crunch. It happened so quickly that Morrissey couldn't even register pain, the shock of it more powerful than anything else. He barely recognized the fact that Mike was grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward his bike, barely even realized that Mike was driving him away, driving him home.

 

All he noticed were the body-shaking sobs that were, somehow, coming from _him_ , and the very gentle way that Mike took him off the motorcycle and led him inside, helping him put ice on his now-extremely swollen jaw. He noticed how Mike took Johnny's jacket off of his shoulders and tucked him into bed delicately, leaving him there to handle his feelings on his own.

 

The tears kept coming, and now he noticed the pain. His jaw was on fire, and he could still smell leather, cigarettes, and Johnny's cologne.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops?  
> this is too dramatic for my soul


	5. Bruise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it's been such a long time since I last updated. Hopefully, this will make up for it. This chapter begins the need for an explicit rating. You have been warned.

Three nights later, Morrissey was working his shift. Luckily, his jaw was hurting significantly less, and the swelling had gone down considerably. But there were still purple bruises on his face, and although they didn't hurt, they were a deep color that stood harsh against the paleness of his skin. When his mother saw the damage she had actually gasped in shock, and his boss had reacted in a similar way when he collected his paycheck the night before. Even if he assured the both of them that, no, he wasn't in any pain, the concern didn't seem to go away in the slightest.

 

He couldn't explain that his pain was far from the physical sort.

 

As he stood and cleaned one of the shelves in the gas station, he thought about what had transpired with him and Johnny, and all that he had done wrong. God, he was such an idiot to believe that he could somehow change Johnny, make him suddenly forget that homosexuality was illegal and suddenly forget he had a girlfriend in favor of loving Morrissey. It was silly of him to ever consider that a possibility.

 

But he _had_ considered it possible. He had hoped, he had wished that Johnny would suddenly come to his senses and realize that all he ever wanted was in front of him. He had prayed to a god that he didn't even believe in to let Johnny see that Morrissey could be _perfect._

 

And it hadn't worked.

 

And now, not only did he lose Johnny, but he had also lost Mike and Andy. There was no way that he could ever return to them, now, so unless they came to visit him at work, he didn't think that he'd ever see them again.

 

Underneath the grief, however, was anger; anger surged beneath the surface, making his blood boil. He was mad at Johnny for what he had done. Rejection was one thing. Even though he, Mike, and Andy had all made comments about Johnny “killing” them if he discovered the truth, he had never truly believed that Johnny would dare lay a finger on him. He thought he mattered too much to the black- haired man to warrant that kind of violent outburst. He had honestly thought that he would have received a barrage of insults, harsh words, perhaps a declaration of hate. He had never thought, in a million years, that Johnny would hit him.

 

But a very slight ache and his black and blue jaw were the proof that he had thought wrong.

 

Part of him didn't _want_ to see Johnny ever again. Another part of him wanted to hit Johnny back, punch him in his face over and over until he would never have to look at it again.

 

Most of him, however, wanted to curl up in a ball and admit defeat.

 

He felt grateful for his shift almost coming to a close more than ever. In about ten minutes, he would be able to stop organizing and close the gas station, and then return back to the loneliness of home. At least there he could be miserable in privacy.

 

He was startled by the bell above the door and he sighed. Because of his shift, not many people were in and out often, but most of the people who _did_ come in either looked at him in pity or disgust about his jaw. Some people gasped and asked him if he was alright, and others made obvious noises of disapproval, one even muttering to himself about idiotic teenagers and fighting. He wondered what category this customer would fall into.

 

He turned around to face them, and felt the air escape his lungs in shock.

 

Perfectly cuffed jeans, white button-up shirt, black boots, and a leather jacket. Black quiffed hair with a yellow streak. Cigarette between a pair of perfect lips, and warm golden brown eyes.

 

It was _Johnny_.

 

The second Johnny's eyes swept over Moz's face, something akin to _guilt_ washed over his expression, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

 

“Moz,” Johnny pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and began, voice slightly lower than usual, clipped tone. It almost seemed as though he were trying to sound more macho, and Morrissey fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I sure as hell fucked your face up, didn't I?”

 

Morrissey's stomach clenched in rage and he turned away from Johnny, returning to sorting the shelf with shaking hands. “If you're here to see your handiwork, there. You've seen it. So you can be on your way.”

 

Moz couldn't see Johnny anymore, but he could picture him. Cigarette between his fingers, scowl on his face. He heard him walk closer behind him, and a shiver ran up his spine. Was it out of fear? Or was it the after effect of another feeling entirely? Moz desperately wanted to believe it was the former, but a slight tightening of his trousers proved it was the latter. God, he was so unbelievably pathetic.

 

“Listen, this doesn't mean that I like what you are or anything, okay? But... I'm fucking sorry I hit you like that.”

 

That, somehow, made Morrissey even angrier. Why couldn't Johnny give him a straight apology? Did he really feel the need to assert his heterosexuality in the same breath that he attempted to make amends? Moz turned around and tried his hardest to keep a blank, uninterested face, even though he was battling between punching Johnny back or attacking him with a hug and an accepted apology. “Johnny, I don't forgive easily. I hold grudges. And if you hate queers so much, why don't you just leave? I mean, it must be paining you to be standing this close to a real life homosexual.”

 

“Oh, cmon, Moz,”

 

“No, I mean, truly. You must be shaking in disgust. Are you sure you can handle this? Would you like me to turn my head so you can punch the other side of my jaw? Or would you like to hit me somewhere else?”

 

“Please, you are taking this too far,” Johnny pleaded, voice back to it's typical high, gentle tone. Real guilt and distress had seeped into his cool, calculated facial expression, and Morrissey almost wanted to ease up on him. Morrissey almost wanted to forgive. But the moment that he allowed himself to forgive, he would let affection back in. At least if he was mind-numblingly _angry_ at Johnny then he couldn't feel any attraction toward him.

 

“Am I? _This_ is taking it too far? What if I just punch you in the face because I'm upset with you? Will that be taking it too-”

 

Morrissey was cut off by Johnny pulling Moz down and pressing his mouth to his, bringing their lips together in a gentle kiss. There was an initial moment of shock; Morrissey's blue eyes widened, and he froze, staring at Johnny's closed lids. But then he was reacting, shoving the shorter man away from him harshly and demanding, “What the hell was that?”

 

Johnny kept eye contact even though he seemed to be blinking back tears. “I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. I've never felt like this about a man before but then you showed up and I just couldn't look at you without thinking about all the things I wanted to do with you, and _that's_ why I hit you and I shouldn't have done it, Moz. I should never have done that.”

 

Morrissey didn't think. He just pressed forward and wrapped his arms around Johnny's thin frame tightly, and allowed the tough man to cry into his work shirt. He had never seen Johnny cry before. He had never _expected_ that he would ever see him cry. Somehow, though, he was standing here, with a wet-patch on his collar and Johnny's soft black hair tickling his neck slightly.

 

“Johnny, oh, _Johnny,_ ” Moz whispered, rocking the sniffling man in his arms and wondering just how this had happened. God, he had never imagined that _this_ would be how his night would go. Any trace of anger he had felt toward Johnny melted away without a second thought, and he tightened his hold on Johnny's slim shoulders. “I forgive you. It's alright. Please don't cry.”

 

Somehow, that only succeeded in making Johnny cry just a little more, and Morrissey could almost laugh at the ludicrousness of it all if it weren't for the fact that he had reduced Johnny _fucking_ Marr to a crying, whimpering mess. Morrissey pulled away and grabbed Johnny's chin, tilting it upwards to meet his gaze. “But was that true?”

 

Johnny furrowed his eyebrow and yanked himself away, stepping back, rubbing at his eyes furiously, and attempting to piece together his tough appearance once again. “Was what true?”

 

Moz didn't break eye contact. “That you can't stop thinking about me. That you can't stop thinking about what you want to _do_ with me.”

 

Johnny's face dropped and he looked away. “Yeah. I'm sorry.”

 

“Me either, Johnny,”

 

“What?” Brown eyes darted upward and met blue once again. “You either what?”

 

“I can't stop thinking about you either.”

 

An grin spread out on Johnny's face and Moz couldn't help the giddiness bubbling up within him. “Are you fucking serious?” Johnny asked, face a picture of childish hope.

 

“Yes, I'm fucking serious.”

 

Johnny gasped dramatically, “You know, I don't think I've ever heard you swear before... Truthfully, I kind of like it,” Johnny's voice dropped and he wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“Oh, come here,” Morrissey whispered in awe before pulling Johnny to him and crashing their lips together in another kiss. Moz felt like his heart was going to leap out of his chest as he felt Johnny's chapped lips rubbing against his, and knew that he'd feel a slight burn where Johnny's stubble pressed against him. Shakily, Johnny's hands reached up to cup Moz's face and Morrissey couldn't contain the hiss as Johnny unknowingly rested his hand on his bruises.

 

“Shit,” Johnny muttered, pulling away from the kiss. “Fuck. We shouldn't do this. I'll just hurt you more.”

 

“Shut it,” Morrissey responded sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Don't make this a bigger deal than it actually is. My face is fine. Just don't touch it that roughly again, okay?”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, I'm sure,” Moz replied, leaning down and kissing Johnny softly. With an unexpected burst of courage, he whispered, “My shift is over. Do you want to come home with me?”

 

* * *

 

 

Moz shuddered as Johnny nipped at his neck and pushed him down so the pair were sitting face to face on Morrissey's bed. Morrissey felt as though he were in a fog; he couldn't believe what was happening, couldn't believe that it was _Johnny_ grasping at the hem of his shirt. Johnny returned his mouth to Morrissey's, and Moz couldn't stop the gasp he let out into the kiss when Johnny's hand sneaked its way underneath his shirt, teasing softly at the skin of his hips.

 

The blue eyed man pulled away and looked deeply into Johnny's eyes, trying to assess the situation. Johnny's pupils were blown wide with arousal, and his bottom lip was slightly more red than usual from all the kissing. Suffice it to say, Johnny took Morrissey's breath away, but Moz couldn't help but fear that Johnny was somehow making a mistake by doing this. He searched desperately for any sign of trepidation, but that was quickly forgone in favor of kissing back when Johnny brought their lips together again. He brought his hands up to take off his glasses before things got any more heated, in the fear that they'd break.

 

“You gonna be able to see without them?” Johnny muttered against Moz's lips, still ghosting his fingers over his hips. Moz laughed against the kiss, but his giggle broke off into a moan as Johnny began ever-so-slightly inching closer toward the fly of his trousers.

 

Moz pulled away, leaning his forehead against Johnny's. “Everything else is blurry, but I can still see you, Johnny,”

 

“Don't go all sappy on me,” Johnny laughed, kissing Moz again. “You sure you wanna do this with me? Even after I fucked up your face?” he asked, very delicately touching Moz's bruise and sighing.

 

“Even after you fucked up my face,” Moz responded, smiling and resting his head on Johnny's shoulder. He whispered shyly, “Johnny, I've never done this before.”

 

Johnny's eyes widened, “Are you serious?” Moz just nodded. “Well, I guess I don't have to worry about not being any good, huh? You don't have anything to compare it to,” Johnny added, smirking and leaving a small kiss on Moz's head.

 

“I don't think you have to worry about me not enjoying it, Johnny. I've wanted to do this with you from the moment we met.”

 

“At the moment we met, I'd have bashed your head in for telling me that.”

 

“What changed?” Moz asked, burrowing his face into Johnny's neck.

 

“I realized that the reason why I hated the idea of you being attracted to me was because I was afraid I'd be attracted to you back. And after you bailed me out, Angie warned me about you. And I thought I should be mad, but I wasn't mad at you. I was _happy_ when she hinted that you liked me. And that made memad at myself, that made me get angry enough to hit you.”

 

“And then?”

 

“I caught Mike and Andy together last night. I guess that seeing them like that... Well, it opened my fucking eyes. This isn't fucking _wrong_. It may be illegal and I may not hold your hand out in the street, but what we have here in this room can't be wrong.”

 

“ _Johnny_ ,” Moz whimpered, bringing his face up for a passionate kiss that quickly became a gentle, albeit charged, exchange that hand Johnny gasping and Morrissey's trousers tightening.

 

Johnny, clearly growing impatient, pulled off Moz's shirt in one quick motion before shrugging off his leather jacket and unbuttoning his white shirt, baring his thin chest to Morrissey. Moz couldn't help but bring his long fingers forward to gently brush against one of Johnny's nipples, which had the black-haired man gasping. “Shit, no wonder Angie always goes nuts for that shit.”

 

Moz pulled his hand away like he'd been shocked. _Angie._

 

“Oh, fuck,” Johnny grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “Forget I said that. Please. _Please._ ” Moz nodded hesitantly before leaning forward and pressing tight kisses to Johnny's shoulder, up to his neck and jaw. He whimpered when Johnny boldly placed a hand on his crotch. “Is this alright, Moz?”

 

“More than alright.”

 

Without any preamble, Johnny opened Morrissey's fly and reached into his pants, grabbing at his erection with a slightly calloused hand. Moz groaned and squeezed his eyes shut as Johnny stroked him from base to tip, teasing at the head of his cock with his thumb. With shaky hands, Moz reached forward and did the same to Johnny, opening his jeans and stroking him in time with Johnny's movements.

 

“What do you want, Moz?” Johnny gasped, eyes slightly glossed over. Moz felt his stomach jump. There were things, _other_ things that he had always wanted to do, but now that the opportunity had arisen he felt too terrified to ask for them. He was still too unsure of Johnny's feelings about this situation, still afraid that Johnny would wake up tomorrow and tell him that, no, he wasn't _actually_ attracted to Morrissey at all.

 

So Morrissey gasped out, “This. This is enough,” even though it was not enough, not at all. The two of them continued to touch each other, almost completely silent aside from the occasional gasp. Their eyes didn't part from each others _once_ , and seeing pleasure pass over Johnny's face, seeing his eyebrows scrunch up and his sinful lips part open hurdled Morrissey toward the edge faster than he had wanted or expected.

 

“Johnny, _Johnny,_ I'm gonna-” Moz gasped out quietly, tongue darting out to lick his now-dry bottom lip. He gulped as the muscles in his stomach and thighs tightened, and when Johnny leaned forward and pressed their lips together once again he spilled all over Johnny's hand, gasping into the kiss. Johnny let out a low moan and followed him over the edge.

 

Once they had pulled their hands away, still sat face to face on Morrissey's bed and barely disrobed, Moz began to laugh giddily, and Johnny followed suit. Before long, the pair of them were crying laughing, and Moz's cheeks hurt from smiling.

 

After taking turns cleaning up in the bathroom and stripping down to their pants, they joined each other once again on Morrissey's bed, now laying down under the duvet and speaking about God-knows-what quietly. Morrissey traced small patterns on Johnny's chest until his eyelids felt heavy and his breathing slowed, and he fell into a deep sleep, faced pressed against Johnny's shoulder.

 


End file.
